


any sign of spring

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr Has Trust Issues™, Alex needs to eat more, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Feels, Art School, Art Student Alexander Hamilton, Baltimore, Bathtubs, Boys In Love, Burr also needs to eat more, Friendship, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, I am not my family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Poor Little Rich Boy, Tags Are Hard, Winter, old houses, skinny boy, tags scare me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-24 21:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7523227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Aaron Burr finds himself stuck in an art class with an aggravating, intriguing person, one Alex Hamilton ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [undisclosedtumbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/undisclosedtumbles/gifts).



> though (true to form) I didn't know that at first.  
> hope you like it. 
> 
> *
> 
> written July, 2016.
> 
> i made the art thing? it is [here](http://littledeconstruction.tumblr.com/post/148589553589/did-some-sketches-last-night-of-my-own-fic-i).
> 
> *
> 
> i posted this in draft-form and it would not post correctly so had to delete the whole damn thing so so um sorry if you saw it already or something

  
  
"There's a mistake."

"No mistake." The registrar turned around the monitor so Burr could see the line of accrual versus required. "You're three credits short." She gave him a look that was no doubt meant to be sympathetic. "It's only one class. You could take it over winter semester."

One. More. Class.

That meant more tuition, more student housing, more --

He wouldn't swear at her, he _wouldn't_. It wasn't her fault his credits were miscounted; it wasn't her fault registration had ended weeks ago; none of it was her fault, but -- "Is anything still open? Maybe some ... non-class class?"

She gave him a different sort of look. "We don't offer _non-class classes_."

Burr did not swear this time, either, but it was getting much closer. "I don't mean to be rude. The thing is," and he felt himself break into a cold sweat, like saying it out loud somehow made it more true, "there's been a mistake with my credit hours. I was supposed to graduate last week. I'm one class short. I just need ... something easy. Something relaxing." I was supposed to _graduate_ , he said silently, to himself, and swallowed hard. I was supposed to be _out_.

"How about an art course? Real Drawing 106."

"Fine." He had no interest in art, thank god. He didn't think he could bear to care about anything else.

She handed him a printout of the screen. "This, too, shall pass."

"Thanks." He already knew everything changed; that was part of the problem. The other half was what it changed into.

  
  
  
It was snowing again. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his old coat and shrank down into his scarf, a gift from Angelica. "Brings out your eyes," she'd said, and kissed him. He didn't care about his eyes; he only wanted to stay a little warm for a little while longer.

The list of required materials was a bit long and more than a bit expensive. He bought a single "medium hardness" pencil and a medium-sized sketchpad, going off-list for both, and stood yet in another line to pay for them.

 

  
  
Art class.

He was almost late -- the battery in his phone was old and dying and the alarm didn't work properly and the art building was all the way on the other side of campus from where he'd ever been, and it was windy, and maybe his steps were dragging a little too because he still could not quite believe he was here and doing this, going to an art class of all things. To what extremities are we bought.

The room itself was huge -- cavernous -- and strangely intimate. Students clattered around, dropping pads, talking about supplies, showing off sketches.

No one looked up when he came in.

He took a seat near the back and propped his sketchpad open on the easel and tried to calm down. He'd gotten here too late for a corner seat. It was fine. Maybe next time. Meanwhile he was sandwiched between a young woman with a beautiful nose and some long-haired guy in tight jeans.

They were talking together, even as Burr took the seat between them; they were dropping names and arguing lightly. They sounded pretentious.

They were drawing a still life.

Burr drew the still life.

It looked, he thought, terrible. Whatever. He really did not care if his bowl of lemons resembled like a bowl of lemons; he only needed to do the work and pass the course and _get out_.

Class ended and the students were packing up, too slowly for Burr to make his way through them and escape; he settled into his coat and carefully wrapped around the scarf, tucking it in against the certainty of winter, and stood with the pad of paper beneath his arm, waiting.

"You look miserable. Do you do this often? Sketch, I mean." It was the guy who'd sat next to him. Long hair and unrested eyes.

"It must be obvious that I don't," Burr said, tightly. He had a strange feeling, like something in him was paying attention, something he wanted to lure back asleep. It was familiar and rare and dangerous. It meant he needed to get out of this conversation and fast. It was something like the force that pulls a magnet and something like the movement of a clock's hands sweeping together and traveling apart, and it was nothing like either of those things, really.

"And you hate it. So why are you here?"

"I needed a class. This was open."

Those eyebrows went up skeptically, but "Alex Hamilton," was all he said. He stuck out a hand. He'd had pushed his sleeves up to the elbows. Skinny hand, skinny wrists, skinny jeans.

Too thin, maybe. Focus on that. Ignore the his eyelashes. Ignore his eyes. It's fine.

Burr took the long-fingered hand and shook it, tentatively. 

Nothing alarming happened. _Alex_ had a nicely firm grip and his hands were dry and he let go after a socially-correct amount of time. So. "Aaron," said Burr.

"No last name?"

"No."

"Well, Aaron-no-last-name, Aaron with the beautiful scarf, have you ever done any modeling?"

Burr blinked. "Are you trying to pick me up?"

Alex stared at him like he was an idiot. "Artists' modeling. We're in an art class. I'd like to draw you. You've got a great," and he gestured vaguely, "great form. Strong features. Distinctive. And there's something about how you hold yourself. I want to see how it translates to paper."

"Sorry. Not interested." Definitely not interested. He had to get out before this got worse.

Alex gave him a strange look, up and down. He was seeing the shabby coat, the worn-out collar, the scarf spread out trying to cover it and failing. He was seeing that Burr had no gloves. He was tallying the cost of his expensive shoes and dividing it by the number of years they'd been worn.

"I'll pay you," he said.

"Really, really not interested. If you'll excuse me -- "

Alex named a number and Burr, approaching the door, felt his body react before his mind could take it in. "Per diem?"

"Hourly."

"Clothed?" Though it didn't much matter; he would happily take off his clothes for that much money.

"Whatever you like," said Alex, easily. "I'd pay more for life drawing, though. Double."

The creepy feeling got worse and then something clicked in his chest, almost audibly, like -- yes -- like a pair of magnets with their poles misaligned, joining together. Burr felt sick. He didn't have the power to resist the lure of money and physical attraction both.

 _Money_ , he thought.

He'd be able to pay rent.

He'd be able to eat.

He'd be able to buy a second pencil for art class.

_Fuck._

 

  
"Come in. Sit down. Is it still snowing?"

Small talk. Alex was trying to put him at ease. It didn't work. Small talk was stupid. The tall studio windows were uncurtained, he could see very clearly it was still coming down, even if the snow melting on Burr's shoulders was no indication. So, so so -- He unwound the scarf and tucked it around his coat and hung them coat on the rack -- and hesitated. What now?

 _Clothed,_ Alex had said. _Or whatever you like._ And he'd smiled, like the cat that's got the cream. But right now he was doing something with a canvas roll of pencils, scraping one down with a pocketknife, sanding it a little, absorbed. "You don't have to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"Sure. Could you sit there?" He gestured.

Sofa. Cushions. No plastic tarps anywhere, no hatchets or guns or chainsaws evident.

Burr sat. He tried to relax.

Alex considered him. "Is that how you normally sit?"

"Yes."

"I doubt that." He went back to whatever-he-was-doing-with-his-pencils, not looking up. "I'm not going to murder you, Aaron."

He could, though, thought Burr; no one would miss him. Burr could stay here, piecemeal in some chest freezer, for months. They'd only notice when he didn't come to pick up his diploma -- and, he thought, they wouldn't notice even then, because without this art class he wouldn't even graduate, and therefore --

When the tuition bills went unpaid, then. Or would his uncle pay them? He rubbed his hands on his knees. "I'm sorry. If you want me to sit a certain way, you need to tell me."

"No, you're fine. Don't worry. Sit there -- do what you like with your body -- only hold still, please. Warn me if you're going to move or I'll get very cranky. I'll start with ... hmm." He adjusted the easel, pulled over a low stool, made a face at the paper. "Hey. Aaron. You do have a last name, don't you?"

"I do."

"You just won't tell me." Alex was sketching now, glancing up only briefly.

"It's not a secret." He hadn't wanted to have this conversation. Not again. Not right now. Preferably not ever. He swallowed. "Burr. Aaron Burr."

"Burr," repeated Alex, with a lilt. "Like -- "

"Like the school library, yes."

"And the city park?"

"And the park. And the monument downtown, that ridiculous statue. And -- "

Alex stopped sketching and looked at Burr -- really looked at him, with a faint tinge of disbelief; his mouth was a little parted and his eyes looked almost amused, almost angry. "Your family owns half the city and yet you're here on my sofa posing for money, and your very nice shoes are worn through the sole. Tell me, Aaron Burr, why is that?"

His own mouth was feeling damnably dry. "I am not my family."

"And why is that?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Sure," said Alex. And then in a very different tone -- "Ah! Hold that. Don't move, don't you dare move. Don't even twitch an eyelid."

And Burr obeyed, he _held still_ , because Alex was paying him for this, because his other option was to grab his coat and storm outside into the cold and the wind and the snow that kept falling. Because the other options weren't really options at all, it wouldn't help him escape anything but this awful conversation, and it would still leave him exposed -- Alex would see, if he didn't see already, that Burr couldn't handle talking about family and legacy.

Probably he could see it already. Because as Burr remained motionless and Alex worked, looking over every now and then and frowning and erasing and frowning and smiling a little, all unconscious, Burr felt that inexorable tightening again. This was an intimacy he didn't want -- to be seen, to be known. And it went both ways. In the blue half-light of afternoon, slanting over the snow, tangled with shadows of denuded trees, Alex looked tender and focused and determined and soft and beautiful.

And so Burr closed his eyes, and "Didn't I tell you not to move?" so he opened them again, watching Alex, letting the stillness settle over him, letting himself fall into it.

 

  
  
The next time was better: and worse.

It was raining now, instead of snow. Burr still wore his old coat and Angelica's scarf because they were wool and therefore useful even in the damp, but when he removed them and hung them up, stretching out his shoulders a little, running a hand over his own head, he caught the distinctive scent of wet wool in a closed space -- a smell that had been compared unfavorably to wet dog -- and briefly he again contemplated running.

Alex called out something unintelligible from somewhere else in the apartment and Burr understood that he was meant to wait and be patient -- and so he was.  
He should have been tempted to look at the easel, still set up from last time with its enormous sketchpad. He was not tempted.

He crossed the room and looked outside.

Rain. More rain. It came in sheets, blowing and scattering the people into buildings, taking cover. It changed the tree-trunks to grey and black, not stark and precise like a winter landscape sometimes is, but dismally bleak. The color of the day, thought Burr. He turned from the view at the exact second Alex walked in, bare-foot, toweling dry his hair. He looked sleepy and relaxed and warm and damp, and Burr felt himself grow roots into the floor.

"Oh," said Alex; he seemed to blush under the golden-medium-melanin-tone of his skin, but he was looking at the easel. "Oh. Don't look at that yet."

"I wasn't."

"I mean, it's okay if you were, I'm not mad. I just --"

"I really wasn't." His voice sounded tight to his own ears, almost sharp. "I was thinking about the rain."

"Okay," said Alex, wide-eyed. "Sure. It's alright. Aaron, will you -- again -- on the sofa -- do you remember how you were?" And he tossed the towel on a chair and pulled back his hair into a rubber band and sat on the stool again, curling his toes over the edge, leaning his chin on his knee, dropping at once into that loose tension he'd had before, a sort of privacy.

For a long time there was only the sound of rain against the windows and the tiny scratch of a pencil against paper.

Ten minutes; fifteen. Twenty.

At twenty-seven minutes, Alex put down the pencil and stretched out his fingers and said "You can break for a minute, if you'd like. Do you want something to drink -- "

"No."

"Do you mind if I do?"

"It's your house."

"Not exactly," said Alex, disappearing and re-emerging with an aluminum can. "I share it. You haven't met them yet; you haven't had the chance." (Did Burr _need_ to meet them? Was he _expected_ to meet them?) "Roommates. Friends, really. They're a bit ..." He was staring at the sketch again, frowning. "They're a lot of things, actually. Big personalities. Thank god it's a big house. Herc's family owns it, that's why we ... do you live alone?"

"Yes."

Alex looked at Burr -- not as a segment of shapes and dimensions, but as a human being. "Do you want to talk about this?"

"No."

"What do you want to talk about?"

Burr bit his lip. "Is talking part of what you're paying me for?"

"You make it sound like this hourly arrangement is something far more interesting," and Alex was annoyed now, he could hear it, he could see it in the line of his shoulder and arm and the slight change in the pressure of his fingers on the can. "But. No. You don't need to open your perfect mouth and speak if you don't want to do it; that is not, after all, what I'm _paying you_ to do."

"My -- my perfect -- my what?"

Alex was staring at his sketchpad again. "Don't bother with fake humility. You know you're gorgeous. You must get it all the time. People asking you to ... model."

No, actually. "No," he managed. And he certainly didn't know _Alex_ felt that way. _Your perfect mouth._ He shifted a little, suppressing a shiver. He had to calm down. "I didn't even notice the -- the compliment. I need the money."

Alex gave him a long, strange look. "I'm going to start again. Hold your place, please, but keep talking ... Money, yes. And I'm paying you quite a lot of it, considering you're still wearing all your clothes." Amusement in that voice, and something else. His head was tucked away behind the easel, though.

"You must really want me here."

"I really do."

Burr let himself look over again -- those long legs, his thighs, his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows again -- a faint shadow of hair on the slender forearms -- t-shirt clinging to his chest as he bent forward --

He swallowed.

It was easier to talk when Alex was dissecting his appearance and not his words. He wasn't being seen as a person; he was a collection of shapes and shadows. He felt the difference. "Money. My folks died when I was a kid. Different times. Different reasons. We were shuttled around a lot, between people and places. Houses. Countries. It took a while, a lot of legal chatter, but I finally stayed with my -- my uncle." That was enough; that was too much. He hadn't said anything really, he was babbling, and all of it was too much.

 _Uncle_ , he'd said. The word put a hard knot of tension in his chest.

A little _hum_ from Alex. "You two don't get along."

"We do not get along."

"Can you lift your chin again? You dropped it down."

And Burr, raising his head and his eyes at the same time, met that coolly considering gaze -- and this time he wasn't the one to look away.

 

 

And

"Tell me about your roommates. Your friends."

"There's not much to tell, really -- and I wanted to finish up one thing -- oh, fine, I was more or less done anyway." Alex rubbed at his wrist. "There are four of us living here. Herc -- Jeffs -- John," counting on his fingers. "And me. I just met Herc this year but he and John have known each other forever. Jeffs isn't around much, he graduated already and he works a lot, but he's just part of the group, you know?"

Burr did not know. "Your friends have some strange names."

"Herc is actually Hercules -- you can see why he shortens it. Jeffs is Thomas Jefferson."

"Why not Thomas?"

A shrug. "Why _Alex_ and not _Alexander_? Why are you _Aaron_ , not _Burr_? Why anything? Anyway. They're a mess," and he smiled. "You'll have to meet them."

"I -- that's really all right. You don't need to bother."

"Maybe I want to bother you," said Alex, so much to himself that Burr wasn't sure he had heard it correctly, or even that Alex had spoken at all.

 

 

And

"Here. Let me help." And before he could move, those long-fingered hands were at his neck, adjusting the collar on his coat. Burr went very still. "That really is a beautiful scarf. It does something to your face, brings out all these highlights and lowlights. Depths. They're there all the time, of course, but it's hard to see sometimes." He rested his hands on Burr's shoulders for a moment, looking at him very seriously.

"I didn't buy it," said Burr; it was the only thing he could think of to say and he so desperately needed to say _something_ to get past this moment, past the expression on his face, that speaking this bare fact aloud seemed to be sharing something of vital importance. "It was a gift. From my --" He stopped. "Angelica."

"Ah," said Alex. He stepped back, hands empty. "Your Angelica."

"Yes."

Something strange in his face. "Tell her she has excellent taste."

"I will."

"And here. For you. Happy new year."

"Alex, that's more than what you owe me. That's too much by half." And he'd looked up the going rate; he knew that he was being paid more than double what he deserved for sitting still an hour and letting someone stare at him. "I can't accept it."

"Of course you can. You just don't want to do it." And he physically turned Burr, touching him through the heavy layers of coat and shirt, pressing him between the shoulder-blades. "Services rendered, my friend. Go."

 _Friend_ , thought Burr. His hand clenched hard on the bills.

He stopped a moment just outside the door and looked up into the vast white blankness of sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -this is a bizarre set-up but it actually happened to me! I graduated late because of some registrar fuck-up and BOY HOWDY WAS I PISSED  
> -just so you know, Alex is not actually enrolled in a 100-level art class; he's auditing, because he's a dork.   
> this probably won't come up but it would bother me as a reader so here ya go  
> -the pretty woman with the beautiful nose is Theodosia Prevost  
> -I like _Dexter_ (even the series ending, yes) -- so there's a tiny reference in here


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Burr meets the Hamil-Squad and they all have a drink, or two, or possibly three? and someone stays the night, and someone gets into a huff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 7/22 thru 7/29/16.  
> this chapter gave me the fucking fits. i re-wrote the entire damn thing three times (right down to a change of setting, time, characters, conversation, topic) ... still not really happy with it but i can't figure out what is wrong to make it better so this is what you get I AM SORRY FOR MY MANY FAILURES AS A WRITER AND AS A HUMAN BEING.
> 
> want some music while you read? try [Hem -- Eveningland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SySkx-o-Miw&index=73&list=PLoqejYGQG9a1DyoNwYChs7aJLXrL35p_K)  
>  _I know you don't believe me, but I have something to tell you, I know it's not so easy, but baby ..._

He still went to class, of course, and made his inept artwork; when he finished he walked the rest of the way to the house Alex shared with the unknown group of roommates, or friends, the ones he had not met, the ones he desperately hoped he'd never meet, despite Alex's conviction they would all get along like a house on fire --

\-- but when Alex thought of fire, he thought of camping, of marshmallows and laughter and the sweet smell of woodsmoke lingering afterwards in his sweater. Burr could only remember what it was to be burned. Alex could not see that, he would not see it, it was not in him to understand; and, Burr thought, it was impossible to reconcile such a fundamental difference.

Still their afternoons together were sweetly lazy. Burr held his eyes closed, he was almost drowsing, leaning against the wall, letting the time pass. Meditative; that was the word. He'd been looking for it earlier. Normal meditation left him feeling antsy, itchy, but being here -- knowing Alex was looking at him, knowing he could not move, holding his form to Alex's specifications, their tensions matching, a sort of shared bondage-- 

 

 

"Um. Aaron?" His voice was strange. Strained. 

Burr looked up. 

Alex dropped his head back down. His hair fell over his face. "Um, so. So don't kill me, okay?"

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. Really. Just -- trust me, will you? It's okay." He was stuffing pencils back into the long canvas roll, hastily, his normal deliberate focus scattered now. He looked -- _nervous?_ "I just invited my friends back up. They'll be here soon."

Burr stood, fumbling for his coat. "That's fine. It's -- I'll go."

" _No_ ," said Alex -- then laughed. "Sorry. I didn't mean it liked that. I meant -- would you please stay? Have a drink with us, Aaron. They're not awful people, really they're not. They're just a little ... ah. Strong-willed."

"Alex. I don't want to -- to get in the middle of your -- group."

"You're not interrupting. You're invited."

Burr's fingers clenched on his coat. "You could have warned me."

"This  _is_ a warning. Anyway, if I'd told you before you came here, you wouldn't have showed up." He grinned; he pulled back his hair again and tied it up again and something caught in Burr's throat. He saw the muscles and tendons shifting about beneath the skin, saw the form settle back, and wished with a sudden violence that _he_ were the artist. Oh to have that body beneath his -- his gaze -- to copy the shades and hollows and curves of it! As good as a physical touch. Better, even, because it was safer. More controlled. He could keep it tucked away between the covers of a sketchpad. He'd never leave it out in the living room, like Alex did with his work, the pages spread open, exposed to anyone who walked past. ( _I'm too lazy to put it away,_  Alex had said one, laughing, and Burr said  _Don't your friends look at it?_  and Alex gave him a queer look:  _I asked them not to --_ Which wasn't any sort of proof, Burr thought -- but that was Alex's business, not his. _)_

He realized he was staring. He realized he was holding his coat against his chest like it could protect him. "Um."

And "Please stay," Alex said; he reached out and touched the edge of the coat. 

Burr jerked back; it burned in his throat like the need to cough, or cry. _Fuck_  this. He was better than this. He wasn't fucking afraid. "Fine," he said, ungraciously, and was rewarded with a smile that made the burning start somewhere else.

 

_Hercules_ was immense, broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy leather jacket; he had a silver helmet tucked under his arm like a secret, like a confession. Hard to picture all that bulk on a motorcycle, thought Burr, scornful: and then the image fell into place and he couldn't envision him any other way. He nodded at Burr and took a seat across the room. "Hello there."

And "Laurens," said John, stepping forward to offer his hand; he was tall and smoothly fluid and his handshake gave nothing away. "You're the newest model, I guess," he said, not altogether unkindly. "I should have known."

What the fuck did that mean? "You're the roommate," said Burr. He'd deliberately used the lesser of the two words: roommate, friend.

"If you like," said John. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at Alex a long moment, so Burr looked too. (Was that a blush?) But Alex, who'd dropped down on the sofa to sit next to Burr the moment his friends came into the room, neither moved nor explained.

John only smiled a little and sat on the floor.

The silence was immediately strained.

Hercules stood. "Who needs what?"

"Beer."

"Guinness, please. They're under the sink. And a meade."

"Alex, you're disgusting. How can you drink that shit warm?"

"Says the man drinking a Natty Boh," said Hercules, coming back in, holding all three cans easily. "Cheap but classic," going to John, "expensive and classic" -- that was Alex's Guinness -- "and a interesting choice for our newest member."

"Um," said Aaron. "I didn't -- I can't --"

"It's not like you're driving," said Alex. "Anyway, you can and you will. I bought them for you. Don't make that face, Aaron. You'll like it."

So Burr took it and held the can in his hands and turned it slowly _(Rosemary Meade,_ it read. _Locally owned, locally grown)_.

"It works better if you drink it," said laconic John. "And our Alex did buy it special."

"Shut up," said Alex. "Where is Jeffs, anyway?"

"Class, ass, grass -- who knows with that one?"

"He is indeed an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a purple coat."

"Pay no mind to all that front," said Hercules, in his calm way. "It's a decoy. Or warning coloration, maybe, like certain types of caterpillar."

"What is he TA'ing now?"

John laughed out loud. "American history, _part deux_. Revolution to independence. Can you fucking imagine?"

They weren't talking to him; they didn't need him at all; he was entirely unseen. He wasn't even here, not really. Except that Alex was talking enthusiastically, waving his hands around to help him explain, and every time he gestured his knee bumped against Burr's. 

So Burr drank. It was sort of good -- a surprising taste, sweet and then strong. Complex. He liked it. He took one sip, and then another, and then he was halfway through the can and -- 

"Are you alright?" said Alex, nudging him with his shoulder, speaking underneath the noise of Hercules and Laurens arguing casually over some point he hadn't bothered to understand. "You've barely spoken."

"I'm fine."

"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm not sure that's true." 

"What? Sorry, it's loud in here. They are loud. Goddamn noisy friends." And he smiled at them.

"Nothing," said Burr.

 

Burr kept his hand tight around his drink; it was the only sign of tension he allowed himself. He forced himself to talk. He made Hercules laugh two times, and once even John Laurens smiled. 

He'd lost count of the number of times Alex had looked at him. More then twenty, he was sure. 

He'd lost track of the times he had lost track of the conversation, distracted as he was by the sight of Alex's hands on his knees, or moving in the air, long-fingered and restive, or how he tugged at his hair when he was feeling particularly emphatic, or the way his skin caught the change in light as the day drew shut. 

He tried not to notice these things. He tried not to look. And every time he tried not to look it was because he'd caught himself looking, so ... and Laurens noticed -- he knew he did. Hercules probably did too; his silence had its own gravity, like a black hole, and Burr had the impression there wasn't much that slipped past him.

It was fine. It was _fine._ He could do this; he _was_ _doing_ _this_. It was making him a bit dizzy -- doing it. He excused himself and used the toilet and lingered in the hall, looking at a few framed pictures. It was no one he knew. Maybe they'd come with the house. He walked back slow, trailed his fingers along the chair-rail, grounding himself with the change of texture, sensation -- and heard: "Don't you recognize him?"

"Should I? Have you slept with him, John? Have _I_ slept with him?"

"You pass his statue every day downtown. _Senator Burr._ " Laurens rolled the R in an affected drawl:  _Burrrrr._

"Stop it." Alex. "You're a _shit_. I told you _not_ to say anything and here you are being an asshole anyway. You're doing it on purpose. You don't have any reason to be jealous, and --"  
  
"I'm not telling anyone's deepest secrets. I'm saying, it's stupid to pretend he's doing this for the money --"  
  
" -- I _very specifically_ told you --"

That was enough. Burr walked in. He'd composed his face easily; he knew this scene, he knew these lines, he'd been in this role his entire life. "Thank you," he said to Alex, deliberately standing in the middle of the room, deliberately taking the stance of that statue -- shoulders back, face lifted up like he was sighting something over the horizon. "It was great fun to meet all of you, but I must go."

Everyone spoke at once. John Laurens said "Fuck, _"_ and Alex said first his name and then Burr's, and Hercules said something to John that ended in "-- someone you don't even want," and Burr said cleanly over all their different voices: "I'll see you around, Alex."

He actually made it to the door before Alex made it to him. "Don't leave. I want you here. I want you to stay. John's a jerk. _I'm_ a jerk. But he'll be good -- I'll be good -- he's mad and he's got no reason to be mad and that makes it worse but now he's thrown a tantrum he'll be good, I promise. Please?"

And Laurens, coming up, said: "Aaron? Wait. I'm sorry. You don't need to leave. _I'm_ leaving. I'm going." He turned to Alex, seeming ready to speak a moment, but Alex only frowned, and at last Laurens shrugged and left.

Alex and Burr stared at each other.

"Well," said Hercules. "Does anyone want another drink?" And he disappeared into the kitchen, making a lot of noise and, apparently, accomplishing very little, because he did not emerge.

The tension dissolved: Alex sagged against the wall and Burr came unmoored -- he was floating, he was lost -- oh but he was still _angry,_ angry with Alex and Laurens, most of all with himself for being so petty as to care about any of it. He _hated_ being petty. He hated his own fragility, his desperately flawed self, the need to trust someone. He was teetering always on the edge. He was always so close to pain. 

He hated himself. 

But he didn't say anything. He didn't have anything to say. He could leave -- and leave all this forever. Go away from Alex, with his dark eyes and his slow smile and his patience, his incomprehensible _willingness._ Forever, Burr thought. It would be forever. There'd be no returning, no change.

Leaving was impossible and it was impossible to stay.

But "Please stay," said Alex to him, very soft, his mouth barely moving, the sound barely carrying to Burr's ears.

How could he chose between pain and pain? Because it would hurt him either way -- it would be dull and long or it would be quick and sharp and sly like it was now, like the slight pull of tension at the corner of Alex's mouth, the way he was biting down slightly on his bottom lip, the way he did not reach out and did not reach out and did not reach out, because Burr had flinched back, because he looked at him and saw him in pieces and put the pieces together and still said _Stay with me_. 

He couldn't bear it. _Either way,_ he thought again. So -- so -- 

So Burr put down his coat again and sat stiffly on the sofa, and after a long moment Alex sat down next to him and then that arm shifted around his shoulders and drew him in, moving careful careful careful.

 

He expected Alex to shift away and straighten up when Mulligan came back in -- but Alex didn't react, aside from leaning forward to take his fresh drink. And they spoke together about things Burr didn't know, references he didn't get, neither including nor excluding him, going on as if his presence were no change in their relationship. Which was a kindness, thought Burr, as much as it was an insult.

At last Alex got up and went off down the hall, seeking the proof in his argument about -- whatever he was on about -- and Hercules shifted his gaze over again, that long and considering stare. 

Burr stiffened. Now that they were alone the interrogation would start. But Hercules only said "Have you known Alexander very long?"

"A few weeks. Since the beginning of term." He hesitated. _Talk_ , Burr. _Socialize_. You can do this. He isn't going to bite you, probably. "You've been friends a long time?"

"A little more than a year. It seems longer. He's a good sort." 

Burr dropped his chin under that steady gaze and mumbled, "He said something similar about you."

A faint smile. "He told us about you, too, you know."

"The poor little rich boy, yes."

"Not exactly. He said you are working for him. He said that we would like you."

 _He said we would like you._ Burr didn't run. He wouldn't. But a door opened in him, a place to hide, familiar and quiet and white-walled with a well-cushioned silence -- "Ah." He wrapped his hands around the empty can. "And do I live up to your expectations?"

"Alexander doesn't like most people."

It wasn't really an answer. "He has plenty of friends. Doesn't he? You all like him."

And Hercules grinned -- actually grinned. "We're not _most people_ , or haven't you noticed? Oh," he said, and laughed out loud -- "I cannot _wait_ for you to meet Jefferson. You'll either fall in love with each other or be mortal enemies."

Another compliment? Or another insult? "I thought he went by Jeffs."

"Not with me."

And Alex came back in, carrying a thick book; he smiled broadly at the room and sat down again next to Burr -- very close, actually. Their thighs touched and their hips touched and Burr tried to move away but there wasn't any space for him to go, and then Alex sighed and sort of drunkenly snuggled against him though he was still talking to Hercules; he linked their arms like Burr was going to get up and flee. 

He might have been right about that. The feeling of their bodies pressed together was curiously similar to the feeling of being sketched and Burr wasn't sure how much longer he could bear it, this intimacy between them displayed to the public. (Did Alex feel this too? Was it commonplace for him? Was it a substitute for something else -- for music, for conversation, for sexual pleasure? How could he phrase these questions, even if he could ask?)

He looked out the window; his open hand pressed against his knee; his fingers clenched tight. The night had gathered into full dark long ago; it was windy, he could see that even from the dim yellow-tinged light of the streetlamps, and it looked cold.

"Alex?" he said, and the man looked up, sleepy and startled. "Alex, could you get me another?"

 

At midnight -- or maybe it was later -- Mulligan rose and excused himself and went yawning down the hallway.

Burr did not look at Alex. "I should go too."

"You can't go home like this. Look at you, you're -- you can barely stand. Are you  _drunk?_ You can't be drunk. My dear boy, you've barely had three drinks. _"_

"I'm fine." He wasn't drunk. He was exhausted, bone-tired, drained. "I'll take a cab. I can pay for it." And he could, too. He hadn't spent any of the bills Alex had given him the last time he sat, that ridiculous "new year's gift"; he'd held on to them, touching the edges, staring at the green. He was starved for the color, for any sign of spring --

"Uh-huh. And when was the last time you slept?"

"My place isn't the best for that particular activity." _Rats_ , he could have explained, and his neighbors' squeaky bed-frame, and his window overlooked the hospital courtyard; ambulances came whirring in all night, as brightly noisy as if they were right there in his room. Burr had earplugs and a sleep mask; it helped a little. He wasn't a great sleeper at the best of times.

Alex said: "Sleep here, then. There's plenty of room. More than enough."

Burr couldn't. He _couldn't._ "I --" 

"Shh," said Alex, not touching him at all. "It's all right. Aaron, it's _fine._ "

  

Aaron Burr woke to an aching head and a familiar  _skritching_ noise. He'd dreamt of that noise, he thought: or it had crept into his dreams. It made a strange soft feeling in his chest, like the scent of a meadow. "Alex?"

"It's just me. Just sketching. I didn't think you'd mind." He sounded, Burr thought, a little bit guilty.

He  _ought_ to mind -- for a moment he _did_  mind -- and then he didn't, anymore; he couldn't muster the effort. He had slept and he was warm and the room was full of sunlight and Alex was nearby. Rest had settled over him like a layer of dust, difficult to disturb. He mumbled: "You owe me for that."

Alex laughed a little. "I consider that debt discharged. Since I did let you sleep in my very warm and comfortable bed while I slept on the floor. You understand -- that was purely out of consideration for your tender feelings."

This was _Alex's_ bed? Burr sat up. But. Calm. _Calm_. It's fine.

And he really had slept on the floor -- there was a pile of blankets on the wood and a pillow. His dark, beautiful eyes looked peaceful, even as the hollows beneath them were a little darker than they had been.  

So. Um. Change of topic. "How is the drawing?" He wanted to see it and didn't want to ask to see it, equally: asking would be a sort of confession.

Alex folded the cover over his sketchpad and got up and climbed into the bed -- sitting rather close by, tucking his socked feet under the blankets, leaning against the headboard. So that was his answer. But having him close was another problem of intimacy and confessions; Burr drew in his arms and tried to control his breathing. 

Alex looked at him steadily. "It's going okay. I haven't figured out what I want to say, yet. Frustrating. I can see it, a little, I can see the shape of it, but ..."

He shrugged.

"What does it look like? How do you know?"

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"I very much doubt that."

Alex smiled. It looked sad. "Later on, I want you to remember that  _you're_ the one who asked me, okay? ... So. It's like a _tug_  towards the right idea. I just follow the pull. I don't have control, not really, not if it's going well. Losing control -- that's the idea. That's -- that's the real reason I bothered you in class, Aaron. Not only because you're beautiful," and he smiled again, teasing now. "It happens that way. I see something and I have to draw it. It actually hurts if I can't, when I get that feeling ... I shouldn't admit this -- you'll probably raise your fees -- but I would pay you almost anything for this. To draw you. To get there. Even if it means I have to scrounge in dumpsters for my next meal."

Was he joking? Surely he was joking.

Burr couldn't speak. He looked at the blanket. Touched it. A quilt. The stitches were uneven. Handmade, then. Someone had made it. Someone had loved Alex and spent hours on this gift and finally given it to him:  _Here, here is something for you; here is my time and my work because I love you._  

He couldn't imagine it. He swallowed. "What is your plan? I mean, what is the final thing going to be?"

"A painting. Or a series. Diptych, triptych. Something. Oil paints, for sure. I haven't worked in oils for so long -- it's sort of self-indulgent really, because the pieces don't sell any higher than acrylic and the material cost is, ah, it's expensive. And the work is different, too. A whole different technique." His face was soft and thoughtfully introspective and Burr could feel the heat from his body, he heard the sound of his breathing and smelled the mild odor of sleep and tiredness. "Oil reflects light differently, from beneath the paint ... I want to get the warmth of your skin, Aaron. That tone. The shadows."

It was hard to breathe. "Alex?"

Another one of those half-smiles. "Don't worry. Really, you don't need to look like that; I'm used to wanting things I don't get ... Um." He hesitated. "You know, I had a crush on John too -- ages ago. And I got over it. He's straight, too." He dropped the strained expression and dropped his chin down and played with the edge of his sketchpad, trailing fingers across the spine. "And I guess now you'll run screaming to the police and get tested for roofies. Or at least refuse to sit for me again."

Burr shook his head. He was thinking he had to _do_ something, _say_ something -- but he couldn't, wouldn't, explain this curve of desire in his belly. He offered up the only thing he could think of. "Can I see it? Just what you were doing this morning."

Alex's hand pressed down flat and hard against the cover, like Burr was going to steal the book and run away with it. "I'm not -- I can't do that."

"It means something to you."

Alex laughed. It sounded painful. "It means something to me, yes. It's ... um. Sort of personal. Intimate." He looked odd -- embarrassed, yes -- but what else?

That tight _ticking_ feeling was back in his chest. "It's like sex to you, isn't it? This is your version of _sex._ "

"No. It's more than sex. I could fuck anyone."

Well, that answered _one_ of the questions he couldn't ask. "You asked me to stay last night -- three times, Alex -- and you knew damn well that I didn't want to stay. Don't you think that you owe me a little trust? A little reciprocation?"

"Yes. Of course. It does. Ask me anything. Except this. Not this." And he actually moved the notebook closer.

Burr took a deep breath. "Did you ask me to stay because you're not done your drawings yet?"

" _Fuck_ art," said Alex, rather unconvincingly. "I asked you because I wanted you here."  
  
Burr laughed out loud. "Bullshit. I barely said five words." His chest was tight, focused; the hands of the ticking clock were loose and rattling about; they were ready to fall down in a heap. He could break apart all of this so easily. Alex had almost done it himself. He said: "I don't need your pity, you know."

"Pity? Well, sure, if you want to call it that ... would you prefer I hate you? Do you want me to _agree_  that you're a massive pain in the ass? Fine, I agree. You're the fucking worst. And I must be one hell of a masochist because I still want you around. Jesus _fuck,_ Burr! Hasn't anyone in your fucking life ever  _liked_ you? Are you so unused to simple human affection that you can't even accept --"

Burr's reaction was quick and silent.

Alex shut his mouth and shut his eyes and said in a different tone: " _Aaron._ I -- I don't care if you don't want to sit for me anymore -- okay, fine, you'll call me out on that one anyway -- I do care, I care very much. I desperately want to finish my sketches but that's a separate issue, you know? I will keep paying you and I will never never say one single word to you during sittings, if that's how you need it to be. You can just -- you can just glare at me from the sofa and feel morally superior in taking cash for -- for something I would much," he licked his mouth, "much rather just give you ..."

And he stuttered again. His head dropped down. He picked at the edges of his socks. 

They were probably handmade, too. Someone had probably sit down and knit him a fucking pair of socks just so he'd hear their voice with every step saying  _I love you I love you I love you remember remember remember._

And Burr couldn't even hold a conversation with him. He folded his hands in his lap.

"So," said Alex, not looking up. "So, I'll -- I'll go. You can get dressed. You can leave. You can do what you want. I'm sorry for -- for all of this. It won't happen again." He was babbling, getting out of the nest he'd made for himself on the bed, scrabbling around on the floor for a pencil that kept escaping his searching fingers.

"Actually," said Burr, very carefully, "I was wondering if you have anything I could eat for breakfast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Alex is, indeed, trying to make Burr uncomfortable -- though this version of Alexander is a pretty good fellow and I think he's just acting on instinct, without any real deliberation or malicious intent. You get to decide if _intent is magic_ or not.  
> -the meade is a real thing hereabouts; i'm told it's delicious  
> -the description Alex gives of his art is how I feel about writing -- that visceral pull  
> -i knit socks and i quilt  
> -and writing this fic has made me take up drawing, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Burr takes a bath, Alex throws a tantrum, and some conclusions are found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **note for former child abuse.**

"Cold cereal, coffee, milk, eggs, toast ..." Alex rubbed the back of his hair, and it stood up in a cowlick. "French toast? I could make pancakes. Maybe. No, we're out of baking soda. Sorry."  
  
"Cereal is fine." More than fine.  
  
They ate together silently. Burr hooked his toes around the bottom rung of his chair and stared at the blank, bare wood of the table between them. "This is a really nice house."  
  
"Yeah. Herc's parents are generous. We _are_ paying rent, but," he shrugged. "I think they like knowing he's not in some gang-and-drug-riddled neighborhood, you know? They want their baby boy to be safe."  
  
"It is very _white_ here," Burr said. He added: "Irony intentional."  
  
"Oh, I caught that." Alex grinned. "God knows what the neighbors think of us. But we're quiet -- well, anyway, we don't have too many parties. They leave us alone, we leave them alone. Like you do with possums." He made a face. "And it has good light. The place I was in before, down on the Alameda ... we had space, but it was like you couldn't step outside without getting into someone's way, you know? And in their business. And we were the freaky college kids, punks, not really part of the scene, just getting ... getting them in trouble. And then Hercules started visiting and he's big enough to keep most of that down, just his presence is big enough, you know what I mean? But we still got hassled a lot -- John and I. Rent was cheaper but shit, I'll take on debt any day over watching my ass like that."  
  
Burr nodded. He dipped the spoon in the sugary milk and watched it drip off the end. "I live on Lake."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Those clear eyes watched him. "So there's a reason you don't get much sleep. How exciting."  
  
"Never a dull moment. Alex, do you -- could I --" And Burr hesitated. He breathed carefully, steadily, like he was preparing himself to pick up something heavy. He tried again. "Could I take a shower, or something?"  
  
"Of course. John and Jefferson are out, you know; they've got class. And Hercs is working until late tonight, so. So. Um. Shower. There's only one shower, it's upstairs -- you have to go through John's bedroom (he doesn't mind us using it) -- or, um, down the hall, second door on the right, there's a bathtub there."  
  
"A bath is fine."  
  
"John really doesn't mind."  
  
"It's fine," said Burr again.  
  
"Run the water for a while before you stopper it," said Alex. "It'll be umber at first."  
  
   
  
  
The bathtub was enormous, an old-fashioned clawfoot monstrosity filling the room; a single stain-glass window set high up on the wall gave the appearance and solemnity of a church. He turned on the water, hesitant now, and it roared through the pipes, screaming and gurgling and indeed coming out a rusty reddish-brown: _umber_ , Alex had said.  
  
Burr stared at it.  
  
When it cleared a bit he set in the stopper -- it had a yellow rubber duck attached to one end -- and let it fill to the overflow line before he stripped down, shivering a little.  
  
It was hot. Too hot. It burned his skin and made him shiver again and it went to his head; he shifted down so water covered him deeply, he let his knees rise up, little mountains of skin, and leaned his head back. When was the last time he'd been warm? Warm all through, warm to his bones. It melted some knot in his stomach and he moaned aloud a little. The sound echoed strangely.  
  
_Soap_ , he thought. Wash yourself. _Focus,_ Burr. Don't you dare fall asleep. 

He washed himself, slowly. The water -- which had never really run clear -- clouded and turned white. His skin was above it, a vivid contrast.

He leaned the back of his head on the curve of the bathtub and felt the cast iron radiate heat back. "Alex?"  
  
Nothing for a long moment, then a hesitant voice spoke at the other side of the door. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I don't have a towel."  
  
"Oh. I'm sorry. We don't keep them in there, we don't use it often -- I'll fetch you one --" And then: "I'll leave it here. Unless you want me to toss it inside."  
  
"You can bring it in, I'm -- it's fine." It was fine. The water was opaque. He was covered. He was warm and drowsy and his stomach was full of breakfast and he was so warm. He was far better than any old _fine_.  
  
Alex came in quickly and shut the door quickly and said, to the floor tile: "Where do you need it?"  
  
"Wherever. Alex?"  
  
"... Yeah."  
  
Burr turned his head and rested his chin on the rim of the tub. "You can get your sketchpad."  
  
"Aaron --"  
  
"Really."  
  
"You don't need to --"  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"I don't want to make you --"  
  
"You're not. You are fine. I am fine. Go get it."  
  
Alex tried to speak, couldn't, swallowed hard, and left. But he came back. He brought the little one -- the one he carried in his bag, or near his person, pretty much all the time. He'd been drawing in it that morning. He brought three pencils and the well-worn soft kneaded eraser and a white eraser worn to a nubbin -- and a tiny silver sharpener.  
  
Burr snorted. "Anything else you might need?"  
  
"Shut up," said Alex, sitting cross-legged, leaning against the far wall. 

He was so close. Burr could have touched him, if he'd reached out, if Alex had reached out too. Instead he shifted back in the water again and let a little drain out and ran a little hot back in. "This is glorious."  
  
"One perk of big old houses," said Alex, head down, the faint flush over his cheeks that meant he was absorbed in the work and not paying attention to conversation. "Big ol' bathtubs."  
  
"I haven't been in one of these since I was a kid."  
  
No answer for a minute. Then: "Where was that?"  
  
"France, I think. Or Germany? They moved us a lot." He remembered both houses well enough -- images of large echoing spaces, empty of carpets and drapes, seeming both smaller and bigger than they would when furnished -- and always outside the noise of cars, trucks, people chattering in a language he didn't understand. 

And the feeling of Angelica's hand in his, holding on. 

He remembered what had happened, too.

What he didn't remember, what he didn't know and had no one to ask, was the order of things. Was Germany before the court date, or after it? Was France the place with the screaming fight and the broken window and the blood and the rush to the urgent clinic, with the towel wrapped around her hand and _don't cry Aaron don't cry don't cry it was an accident don't you remember it was an accident you understand that, right, you saw I didn't mean to do it, you saw that Aaron don't cry Aaron she'll be fine_ \-- or was that somewhere else?  
  
This was all written down in court documents somewhere. He didn't want to find it. He didn't care.  
  
He cared. He remembered Angelica, small and quiet and angry; he remembered her hand in the towel and the towel turning red so fast; he remembered the serious, reserved faces of nurses and then police and then lawyers and judges asking the same questions over and over, searching him for the truth about what had happened. _You know the difference between the truth and a lie?_  
  
He knew. He wasn't stupid, he was a kid. But he didn't know, yet, which thing to say to get what he wanted -- or even what that was. _Change_ , he'd thought, he wanted things to _change_. He hadn't thought to be more specific.  
  
"You don't have to talk about this."  
  
"I know." Burr shut his eyes. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been _warm_?"  
  
"When we first moved in here," said Alex, sketching, "I hadn't taken a bath since I was a kid. It was just part of growing up, like, your parents bathe you for a while and then you do it yourself and then you're a teenager and you sprout hair in odd places and therefore you take showers, like, that's the natural progression of things, that's what grownups do ... so there I was. Twelve-year-old Alexander. A real grownup, taking a shower."  
  
"Alexander, discovering hair," murmured Burr.  
  
"So many things to discover. It was a humiliating and edifying period of my life." He grinned. "I'm sure you were born perfectly formed and perfectly taciturn, but some of us had to learn these things. _What does this lever do when I pull on it_ , you know."  
  
"Classy."  
  
"That was innuendo, not vulgarity. You've got a dirty mind, Aaron -- ah -- Aaron No-Last-Name."  
  
"Burr," said Burr, sleepily. "Aaron Burr."  
  
Alex was quiet a moment. "Could you move over? You don't need to -- um -- I mean, I'd like you to just shift over so I can see a little more of your face."  
  
He shifted over and half-rose from the water so it pooled at his waist; he leaned an elbow on the rim and leaned his hand on his elbow. Steam rose off his skin, his shoulders and his chest, in eddying curls. "Does this work?"  
  
Alex nodded. "Fine. Excellent, I mean. Yes. Um. Are you warm enough like that?"  
  
Burr was perfectly warm. The room was humid now; he thought that any moment Alex would complain about the affect on his paper, he would open the door a crack to let it dry out, but he only kept working, that flush increasing and his breath increasing, his hand moving fast.  
  
The magnet-feeling. He hadn't noticed it all day. The _absence_ of noticing it startled him until he realized it wasn't gone; it was only that the poles were aligned, the current traveling seamlessly, effortlessly.

He liked it. He liked the way Alex looked up at him to sketch him and got distracted, over and over, and shook it off. He liked the tiny, all-unconscious foot-tapping on the bathroom tile. He liked Alex sitting here. Wanting him. 

Burr heard himself make a rough noise in the back of his throat -- saw the other man look up with wide eyes and flushed cheeks -- and splashed back into the water, letting it cover over his head and face, not breathing in.

Then he sat up again. "I'm done."  
  
"Apparently." Alex cleared his throat. "I'll leave."  
  
"You don't have to leave."  
  
"I do have to leave. Just -- just leave the towel in here, okay? You have your clothes, right? I'll be -- I don't know." And he fled. 

So Burr got dressed.

He lingered over it, feeling the change of textures over his skin, the intimacy of covering and hiding what had been uncovered, and seen. The air was still and dense and seemed sadly quiet, now it was himself alone -- now Alex was gone. 

And that was it; his mind had been made up for him; he knew now what to do, he knew what he wanted; it was not a question anymore but a complete thought, left sitting out for him to find and unwrap and marvel over.  

He marveled.

 

 

"Alex?"

Not in the living room ("studio"), where denuded windows looked out unto a quiet neighborhood street, lined with trees, just now empty of anything but sunlight, clouds, birds, wind.  
  
"Alex?" 

One door opened unto a closet; the next was a sort of library. How many rooms did they _have?_ And he'd slept in Alex's bed ...

So. Okay. That was the last door on the left. He knocked lightly and turned the handle.  
  
Alex sat in the center of the bare wood floor. His hands were over his face; he breathed hard.  
  
"Um," said Burr, standing in the doorway.  
   
"Go away," said Alexander, from behind his palms.  
  
"Are you crying?"  
  
"No. Go away."  
  
Burr came in further. "My god. What's wrong with you? What did you do?" Because pages were crumbled and tossed not in a trashcan or a tidy heap but flung against the wall, and it seemed like he'd only quit when Burr knocked.  
  
"It's nothing. I -- just -- fuck. _Fuck,_ Aaron. Why are you here?"  
  
"Because you're upset."  
  
"No. I mean." And he put his face in his hands again; he breathed unsteadily. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't -- you don't need to deal with my mess."  
  
Burr sat down, close by. "It's alright."  
  
"I can't -- I can't _get_  at it. I saw you in that bath and I -- Nevermind. It doesn't matter what I do or say or think or want, you know? I can't get where I need to be."  
  
"With the sketches?"  
  
"They're crap. They're shit."  
  
"I very much doubt that. Can I see them?"  
  
Alex laughed a little. "You don't _know_ from shit, do you? But sure, whatever. Look at them. They're ruined anyway. It's shit. I am shit." He shivered.  
  
So Burr opened one of the crumpled sheets and then another and another, stretching them out as much as he could, laying them next to each other on the floor until they filled all the space and he stood above, staring.  
  
It was a single figure, over and over, in a dozen styles and methods -- here, drawn precise in every particular with taut control -- and here sketched loosely, with broad dark strokes crossing each other to build up form, without any attention to detail at all, just shapes to catch the body mass -- and here were tiny, delicate sketches of hands and fingernails and knuckles, the particular curve of an ear, the broad open circle of an iris, a pupil blown wide.

"This is me," he said, crouching down and touching one page that was just his own mouth, drawn over and over, the raise of his upper lip, philtrum meeting the shape of his own nose, broad and sure, no hesitancy in him at all. Forms, shapes, studies. Dark and light. A wonderment. What had Alex seen? What had Burr showed him?

He'd had no idea, _none_ , that Alex did this sort of work. "Alex, this is _me._ "  
  
"You knew that. Don't you recognize yourself?"  
  
No, he did not. "I didn't know this at all." He picked up another torn sheet -- his own head, turned away. There was a danger to it and an eroticism; the negative space and the positive flowed together in a sensuous meeting, and the darkness spoke out more strongly. He held it to his chest like it was a secret. "You're good." _You didn't tell me you were good at this,_ he wanted to say. You didn't tell me this would _matter_.

Would he have done it, if he'd know that Alex was any good?  
  
"I appreciate your surprise," said Alex, dry voiced and dry-eyed.  
  
"You made me -- I look --" 

Beautiful _,_ he wanted to say. You made me look like I matter.  
  
Alex just stared ahead, blank, into the middle distance. "I didn't _do_ anything. I didn't _make anything up_. I copied what's there already. Except that I can't -- even -- fucking -- copy -- it -- correctly --" He tore out pages with each word, finally throwing the sketchbook itself against the window with a horrible noise.  
  
What did Burr have, what could he say or give, to combat this? "You are doing it. Don't you see that? You are. You _have_. There's more here -- _I_ didn't know all this, even."  
  
Alex shook his head.  
  
Burr moved closer and closer and dropped the sketch he was holding and dropped to his knees and said Alex's name and said it again, touching his face; he had such an open grief and longing that Burr shut his eyes and put his hand out and leaned closer and kissed that mouth, that confident mouth just now turned softly uncertain but still warm, still kind, even as it parted, even as Alex drew back away in alarm or pain, and swore.  
  
Burr sat back on his heels. "Well. Should I apologize?"  
  
" _Don't fuck with me, Aaron Burr."_  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Don't -- don't kiss me just to make me feel better. I don't need your fucking pity. You don't want me. You're straight."

Burr started to laugh.  
  
"Oh, fuck you," snapped Alex; he stood up. "Get out. I told you to leave before -- "  
  
"Alexander, you damned idiot," and he approached again and Alex backed away until he was pressed against the wall and he pressed against him, finally touching him, finally running his fingers along the hollow of his collarbone, feeling the texture of his new beard growing in, imperfectly shaved, tangling in his hair and pulling back so Alex made a noise in his throat and shivered and Burr wrapped his arms around him, feeling it go through him too.  
  
Alex pulled back -- there was very little space for him to do so -- and said his name; and then said again, while he kissed his neck -- "Aaron, you're _straight_."  
  
"Are you always this disbelieving?"  
  
"Angelica?"

It was so unexpected that Burr stopped what he was about and openly stared. "What?"  
   
Alex really did move away this time. "You said you're dating someone named Angelica."  
  
"I certainly did not." _Tell her_ , Alex had said, settling the fabric more perfectly around his neck, _Tell her she has excellent taste._  "She's my sister. Half-sister. Cousin. Sort of. It's complicated. My father slept with my mother's ... Yeah. Anyway, I'm not dating her. I'm not dating anyone."   
  
"That would have been useful information, a few weeks back."  
  
"You didn't ask me."  
  
"You didn't _tell_ me."  
  
"Why are you still _talking?_ " said Burr, and kissed him again.

  
  
  
"Have you ever done this?"  
  
"With a man, you mean? No."  
  
"Are you afraid?"  
  
"No." He shivered. "Slow, please." And the hands slowed, the mouth changed pressure, it raised and kissed him again.  
  
"Do you want me to stop?" A hand trailing down his side, fingers light.  
  
"No." _God_ , no. He wasn't not afraid. He didn't want to stop -- he only wanted -- he _wanted_ \-- but his desire was so dark, so overwhelming, he could only accept it and try to stay whole as it came and came and came, as the current broke against him, as he broke.

 

 

"You've done this before."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Soft violence in their bodies meeting, separating; their breath was harsh and rough, mirroring back the same in an infinite tunnel of responses, a reflection of intimacy that showed nothing, gave nothing, explained nothing.

 

 

"This is -- I can't -- "  
  
"You can. Let me."

And Alex cried out aloud.

The heavy curtains were drawn tight and the room was dark -- shades of dusk and dimness, piled on each other in vague opacities. It was like the bath again, warmth and quiet and a curious sensation of floating on the water while being held beneath it, motionless and moving -- lost -- boneless -- 

Burr shut his eyes. He could almost disappear.

 

 

They were quiet together a long time afterwards.

At last: "Seeing you -- seeing you draw that day --"  
  
"Which day?"  
  
"Our first day. You asked my name and I wouldn't tell you and you said you wouldn't press me about it and you called me out on it anyway, because you're an asshole."  
  
"Because you were ashamed," said Alex, into the skin of his neck.  
  
"Not ashamed. Not of that. I only needed to get away from it for a minute. There's literally a statue of my grandpa downtown, for fuck's sake, do you know what that's like? When my uncle -- Nevermind. I can't talk about this. I'm sorry."

And --

"Oh. _Oh_. Oh _wait_. Hold that thought. Wait." And Alex was scrambling up out of the tangle of blankets, rummaging through the papers on the floor -- the pile of his own sketches, a body of work dismembered. He crouched down low, and the long smooth curve of his nudeness was distinct against the shadows. It should have been garish and painfully abrupt, the way his spine protruded from his thinness, the way his skin reflected back the half-light; it was not. "It's not exactly right, but -- here." He brought them over, a handful of pages. Some were actually torn, many smudged, irredeemably. "See the dates -- see? This was our first day. This is when you were talking about -- about your family. This is what you looked like. Do you see?"  
  
"I look angry."  
  
"You look," said Alex, "like you know your worth."  
  
"Is that what confidence looks like? My grandfather doesn't look angry; he looks ..." He trailed off.  
  
"Cruel."  
  
"He wasn't. Not to me."  
  
"Do you even remember him?"  
  
"I was very young. But I remember pain. It lingers." He traced on the paper the line of his nose, his jaw. "I've never seen myself look like this. Alex. You didn't want to show me this before. You even thought I was looking at your work once and I wasn't. I wasn't. I'm sorry." He was apologizing for a sin he hadn't committed. "My uncle," he began, and stopped, not sure what he wanted to say.

"It means something to you," said Alex. "Seeing yourself like that."

"It means something to me." He swallowed. "I ran away from him once, you know. I wanted to do it -- all the time -- but I had nowhere to go. He made sure of that. And then there was Angelica too ... so ... but once it was -- it was bad. We were in Sweden and I ran down to the water, to the docks, and got on a ship ... lucky for me the captain didn't speak a word of English, so it was a long time before things were sorted out." He smiled a little. "Of course I came back down, of course I did, when he found me. I was only seven or eight. I made him promise he wouldn't punish me."

Alex, who had been loved, said: "And did he?"

He'd beaten Aaron until his arm wore out. But Burr looked at the distance between them -- the things Alex wouldn't understand, the things he didn't want him to understand -- and he shook his head, biting his lip. "He was as good as his word."

"I wish I could give you a happier childhood. Better memories. Would that work? If I took you to the harbor now, tonight, we can go down there -- it's lovely at night -- if we went together and if I let you alone, let you choose when to come home--"

"Oh, you sweet boy. No. It doesn't work like that."

"It should." He sounded angry.

Burr bit down on a smile at this petulance. "You can't wash it away, like dirt off a shoe."

"How does it get better, then?"

"How did you improve at drawing?"

Alex groaned. "Years and years of effort. Mostly failures."

"Well," said Burr.

"That isn't _fair_."

"Sweet boy," said Burr again, and kissed him. "Listen to me. I want you. I _wanted_ you, that first day. Seeing you, seeing you draw me ... I didn't know it, then. I'm not good at that. Knowing what I want. And when I realized it, knowing there wasn't anything I could do, knowing I didn't _deserve_ any of this, Alex ..."

"It is barely possible that you're not the best judge of what you _deserve_."

"Stop that. You bring your own baggage; you can't claim impartiality either." He took his hand and felt the rare stillness; his own hand joined around it, perfectly matched. A new form.

It was enough. It would be enough.

"Maybe," he said to Alex's closed eyes, to that that listening and hungry quiet between them, "maybe it's not about deserving. Maybe it's a gift, you know? A new shade of grace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -this is of course Baltimore again, although I take a lot of liberties with the layout  
> -thanks go to my wife for half of the "paper-ripping" scene, all of Alex's anger here and also "I don't need your fucking pity"  
> -Historical Aaron Burr was eventually taken in by his uncle after he was orphaned and he habitually beat little Aaron (and probably his sister, too). Presumably this had something to do with why Aaron was so desperate to get out of the house, applying to Princeton as an eleven-year-old (he was denied because of his age).  
> -the story about little wee Aaron running away as a kid is also true, more or less; he ran away to the docks and climbed high in the rigging of a ship and refused to come down until his uncle promised not to punish him. What happened afterwards is not recorded but i can guess.  
> -my thanks to the Nields for the phrase "a new state of grace" -- i don't like to steal but sometimes there's no better phrasing. so thanks, Nerissa.

**Author's Note:**

> i do shit over on tumblr sometimes, idk  
> @littledeconstruction


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